Seduced at Sunset (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 6) Read online

  “How is she doing?” Dr. Thomas asked with a genuine note of compassion in his tone. “I know it wasn’t easy for her in those final days before the duke slipped away.”

  “You were a great comfort to her,” Charlotte told him, leaning forward to clasp and squeeze his hand on the desk. “I don’t know what we would have done without you. Not just in those final days, but in all the years when he was so…” She couldn’t finish, for there were no proper words other than ‘confused,’ ‘delusional,’ ‘impossible to care for.’ Pitiful.

  “I was happy to be of service,” Dr. Thomas said. “You know how much I care for you and your mother, and for all of your brothers.”

  Garrett especially—her twin—who like his father, was now a surgeon himself. The two men worked together occasionally at the medical school in London.

  “I do know it,” Charlotte replied, “which is why I have come. I would like to see Mother find happiness again. I thought perhaps you and she might like to spend some time together while she’s in London.”

  “You have given this quite a bit of thought,” he said with a smile.

  “Yes,” she openly admitted. “So, what do you say? Could you join us tomorrow for a walk in the park?”

  Dr. Thomas slowly pulled his hand from her grasp and sat back in his chair. He was quiet for a moment, and his cool withdrawal caused a knot of discomfort to form in Charlotte’s belly.

  “I appreciate the invitation,” he said, “but I am afraid I must decline. I have appointments booked and I am sorry, Charlotte, but your Mother and I had our chance many years ago. She chose to marry the duke.”

  “But it wasn’t really her choice,” Charlotte argued. “I know what happened that night before the wedding. She only went through with her marriage to protect you.”

  “I didn’t need her protection,” he said. “All I wanted was her love.” Then he quickly shook his head, waved his hand as if to erase the conversation, and rose from his chair to stand in front of the window. “I do not want to discuss it any further. I care deeply for you and Adelaide, but please understand that I cannot pursue the very thing that nearly broke me on so many different occasions. I loved your mother and I dreamed of her for years, but then the time came for me to move on with my life and accept the fact that we were not meant to be together.”

  “But she is free at last,” Charlotte argued as she watched him stare out the window with his hands clasped behind his back. “Won’t you consider giving it one more try?”

  He faced her. “I am sorry, Charlotte. I am Adelaide’s friend now, but nothing more.”

  Charlotte stood up and approached him. “Please do not give up so easily. Things are different now. She is a widow. She can do as she wishes.”

  “And what is it, exactly, that she wishes to do?” he asked. “Do you even know?” He regarded Charlotte with a knitted brow. “Did she send you here? Or is this your idea, alone?”

  Charlotte looked down at the floor. “She doesn’t know I am here. I didn’t want to push her—or you, for that matter. I had hoped we could simply encounter each other by accident at the park tomorrow.”

  “I see.” He sat down on the window ledge and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then he looked up and inhaled deeply. “You must put this out of your mind, my dear. When I told you that I had moved on with my life, I meant it. You say your mother is free at last, but the fact is…” He paused. “I am not.”

  He may as well have thrown a glass of cold water in Charlotte’s face. She stepped back. “I don’t understand.”

  He couldn’t be married. She was his daughter. He would have told her. Wouldn’t he?

  “I have been courting someone,” he explained.

  Charlotte swallowed uneasily. “Is there an agreement between you?” she asked as a sickening mixture of dread and disbelief flooded into her stomach. “Do you intend to marry her?”

  “That is the direction it has been heading for quite some time,” he replied. “She is a lovely woman—also a widow—and completely devoted to me. I have been a disappointed bachelor all my life, but she adores me, Charlotte. I hope you can be happy for me.”

  Charlotte looked into her father’s eyes and felt a painful, aching sensation in her heart. Of course she wanted him to be happy, but she had wanted a happily ever after for herself as well. She had believed she could accomplish that by watching her true parents come together at last, fall in love all over again, and walk down the aisle while the family threw white flower petals at their feet. But clearly that was not to be.

  Somehow Charlotte found the strength to smile and take hold of his hand. “Upon my word. What a surprise. Certainly, I am happy for you,” she said. “And I hope to meet this woman one day soon. She must be very special.”

  “I believe so,” he said. “But let us take it one day at a time, shall we? I will introduce you when the time is right.” He moved to fetch his spectacles from the desk. “Now I must see a patient, my dear.”

  “Of course. I will take my leave.” Charlotte gathered up her reticule from the chair.

  A few minutes later, she was standing outside on the breezy street, fighting a severe feeling of disappointment, and waving to her coachman who had parked a few doors down. How many years had she dreamed of seeing her parents finally reunited? The tragedy of their love affair always seemed so unfinished. Charlotte had genuinely believed a happy ending was possible for them.

  Perhaps trying to play the matchmaker was her way of dealing with her own lost love. Perhaps, by bringing her parents back together, she would have been able to prove that the cracks and breaks in one’s heart could be repaired one day. But it was not to be, and she was terribly unsettled by that awareness. She had been so sure that Adelaide and Dr. Thomas would end up together. Was she truly a foolish dreamer? Was she living in a fantasy world?

  The coach pulled up in front of her. She was about to step inside and return to Pembroke House when a giant lump formed in her throat. Good gracious. She couldn’t possibly face her mother until she collected herself.

  She turned to her driver. “I changed my mind. I am not ready to go back yet. I would like to take a walk.” She pointed down the street. “I’ll just go to that corner and turn up that street there. I will be back here in a quarter of an hour.”

  “Would you like George to accompany you?” the coachman asked.

  The footman stepped forward. “It would be my pleasure, my lady.”

  She gave him an appreciative smile. “Thank you, but I would prefer to be alone with my thoughts. I shan’t be long.” With that, she started down the street and turned at the corner.

  It was a quiet residential neighborhood into which she ventured, and she strode at a brisk pace along the cement walk, looking around at the townhouses and wondering who lived in them—anything to take her mind off her botched attempt at matchmaking, and the fact that her parents were never going to be together.

  Then suddenly, rapid footsteps pounded along the pavement behind her. She stopped to look back, wondering if there was some sort of emergency. Before she had a chance to make sense of the man who was barreling toward her, he grabbed hold of her reticule.

  “What are you doing?” she cried as she gripped the purse tighter, refusing to let go.

  The thief tugged harder and nearly swung her around. “Let go of it!” he shouted.

  “I will not!” she replied as she leaned back to pull with all her might.

  Charlotte had been raised with four brothers who were not above playing rough with her when they were children, and for that reason she was made of stern stuff. Nevertheless, she was completely astonished when the man shoved her back into the wrought iron fence in front of the closest townhouse. Her head snapped back, and a sharp pain resonated in her skull. She was barely aware of her knees buckling as the world spun circles in front of her eyes, and she crumpled to the ground in a haze
of white.

  Chapter 3

  Drake Torrington was just exiting his townhouse when the sound of a lady’s voice from across the street drew his attention.

  “I will not!” she screamed.

  He spotted her as she was knocked into the fence by a scoundrel who made off with her purse.

  Drake leaped down the steps, darted across the street, and reached the woman in a matter of seconds. “Are you hurt?” he asked, kneeling down to lay a hand on her shoulder, for she had collapsed.

  She seemed dazed by the strike to the head, but then she frowned up at him with a pair of gleaming blue eyes that upset his balance, for he hadn’t seen a woman so beautiful in many years—perhaps not ever.

  “I am fine, thank you, sir,” she said as she struggled to rise, “but that man has stolen my reticule. I want it back.”

  He helped her to her feet. “You’re certain you are all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wait here, then.” He took off after the thief who had paused foolishly at the corner to rummage through the contents of the purse.

  Drake sprinted toward him. The man looked up in surprise, then turned to make a run for it.

  Reaching into his pocket, Drake grabbed his watch—a conveniently heavy piece of gold weaponry—and pitched it at the back of the man’s head. The strike was spot on. The bandit tripped and tumbled forward to the ground. Disoriented, he rose up on his hands and knees and shook his head like a wet dog just as Drake came upon him, grabbed him by the lapels, and pulled him to his feet.

  Drake shook him. “Hand it over, scoundrel, or I will knock your brains out.”

  The thief refused to part with it. He threw a flimsy punch, which by some dumb stroke of luck connected with Drake’s jaw. The pain reverberated through his skull and sparked his blood into red-hot flames of savage aggression.

  It had been years since Drake had enjoyed a good fight, and he wondered what happened to his old instincts, for there was once a time he would have anticipated and easily skirted such a watered-down blow. His pride bucked violently in response, and a heartbeat or two later, the thief was sprawled out, unconscious on the pavement while Drake stood over him, feet braced apart, flexing his bloodied fist.

  The noises of the street had somehow faded away. All he could hear was the heavy beating of his own heart, like a continuous rumble of thunder in his ears.

  As his body rhythms returned to a more natural pace, reality came crashing back. He dropped to his knees to check the man’s pulse at his neck. He was still alive, thank God. Drake removed the reticule from the man’s possession, rose to his feet, and turned around to discover the lady with the disarming blue eyes stood only a few feet away, staring at him in shock.

  Charlotte felt slightly dizzy and considerably alarmed as she locked gazes with the man who had retrieved her reticule. Naturally, she was grateful that he had come to her rescue, but after witnessing such a shocking display of violence, she felt no safer now than she had when the thief had come upon her.

  She had watched every heated second of the altercation and had recognized the force behind the gentleman’s blow. Her breath had hitched in her throat when the thief was propelled backward through the air, as if he had been rammed by a raging bull at full gallop.

  Glancing down at her rescuer’s big brawny fist and bloody knuckles, then down at the lifeless form on the ground behind him, she carefully asked, “Is he alive?” It would be a miracle if he were.

  “Yes.” The gentleman’s voice was husky, barely more than a growl, and she was riveted to the spot. “I believe this is yours,” he added as he stepped forward and held out her reticule.

  Charlotte stood utterly still as the man drew near, for she felt rather breathless. From a distance she had known he was a tall man, but now she could sense—and feel—the looming power of his massive male brawn. His chest was thick, his shoulders wide, though his torso narrowed down to slender hips and undoubtedly strong legs.

  “And this must be yours,” she replied, holding out his pocket watch, which she had picked up on the street a moment before. “It still appears to be working.”

  As they made the exchange, Charlotte felt a shiver move through her. She wasn’t sure what caused it. She told herself there was nothing to fear from this man who had subdued her attacker. Judging by the way he was dressed in a fine black frock coat, silk top hat, and shiny black shoes, he was a gentleman.

  Nevertheless, her head was spinning like a top, for there was very little about him beyond his clothing that seemed the least bit refined. He was coarse looking, like a laborer. Crude, even. And perhaps it was the way he moved—with a dangerous swagger—that seemed particularly threatening after what she had just witnessed.

  Or perhaps it was his rugged facial features. His eyes were a pale shade of blue-gray, his nose was misshapen, as if it might have been broken a few times in the past, and there were scars on his cheekbones, and evidence of an old gash through one of his eyebrows. His upper lip was scarred as well.

  He reminded her of a barbarian from another time. She could easily imagine it—this man, with his huge, scarred, muscled body, standing shirtless in battle, swinging a sword in one hand, wielding a dagger in the other, his eyes burning with bloodlust. He was perfect…

  Stop it, Charlotte.

  “That was quite a punch,” she said. “How is your hand?”

  He flexed it a few times and looked down at his bloodied knuckles. His fingers were thick. So were his wrists. “It’s fine.”

  “It doesn’t look fine to me,” she replied. “I daresay you did some damage, on both sides.” She looked up and down the quiet street. “Should we send for someone? A constable perhaps? Or a doctor?” The side of her head was throbbing. A bump was probably forming already.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” he said in that husky, mesmerizing voice. “I live just there.” He pointed at his townhouse, a few doors down. “If you will accompany me, madam, I will send one of my servants to fetch assistance, and I promise this man will be arrested.”

  “Is it wise to leave him here?” Charlotte asked. “What if he wakes up and runs off?”

  “I will have him brought inside.”

  Then his eyes narrowed with displeasure and he took a step closer.

  For some reason, Charlotte quickly backed away, as if he had swung another punch, this time in her direction.

  “You’re hurt,” he said, not appearing the least bit surprised that she had recoiled from him.

  “No, I’m not,” she insisted.

  He pointed at a drop of blood on her collar, and only then did she notice a wet sensation on her scalp. The dizziness she experienced earlier suddenly made sense, and when she slid her gloved fingers into her upswept hair and felt a gash just over her ear, her stomach turned over. “I’m bleeding.”

  For the second time that day, the world turned white before her eyes, her knees buckled beneath her, and she began to sink toward the ground.

  Though teetering on the muddled edges of consciousness, Charlotte was keenly aware of the man scooping her up into his arms—as if she weighed no more than a bolt of fabric—and carrying her toward his home.

  Clinging tightly to the frame of his shoulders, she fought to stay awake and not faint in his arms. He was rock-solid beneath her hands, and his exotic spicy cologne smelled delectable. She warmed with appreciation and something else…

  He mounted his front steps lightly, with no effort at all, as if they were both floating on air, and his incredible virility had a strange, appealing effect on her. Every fiber of her being hummed with awareness, energy, and excitement. A bolt of fear whizzed through her veins too…though perhaps it wasn’t fear, but something else entirely. Something exhilarating…something more heady, more dangerous. Indeed, even in her fantasies she had never projected anything quite like it.

  “That’s it,
” he whispered softly in her ear as he shifted her in his arms to rap the lion’s head doorknocker. “Just hold on to me, darling. You’ll be fine. My housekeeper will tend to you. One shouldn’t ignore a head wound, you know. They can be serious.”

  She suspected he was making conversation to keep her conscious, but there was little danger of nodding off, for she didn’t want to miss a single moment of this strangely thrilling ordeal.

  Soon the door opened and Charlotte was carried into the house. She looked around at the walls, the floors, the staircase, and the pictures on the walls as she was conveyed into a cozy front parlor, decorated with deep colors and chintz fabrics.

  Clearly this house did not lack a woman’s touch. She wondered if the gentleman had a wife, and if so, was she at home? What would she say when she saw her husband carry a strange woman to the sofa and lay her down upon it?

  The butler appeared—perhaps he was the one who had opened the door—and followed them into the room. “Was there an accident?” he asked.

  “Yes,” her rescuer replied as he ensured Charlotte was settled comfortably on the soft cushions. “This woman was robbed, and she requires our assistance. Please send for Mrs. March and tell her to bring warm water, bandages, and a washcloth. Send Richard to fetch a constable, but not before he and Alfred bring the thief inside.” He leaned closer to the butler and lowered his voice. “Tie him up in the kitchen.”

  “Yes, sir,” the butler said, and left to fulfill his duties.

  While the gentleman looked out the window to keep an eye on the thief, Charlotte attempted to rise up on her elbows, but felt a sudden wave of nausea.

  “Do not try to get up,” he said. “Wait for the housekeeper. She will be here shortly.” His gaze returned to the street.

  Charlotte watched his cool gray eyes sparkle like silver in the sunlight. “If I am going to thank you properly,” she said, “I should at least know your name.”